


Paint Them a Picture, Jane

by Maeve_of_Winter



Series: Songs About Jane [2]
Category: The Trixie Belden Mysteries - Julie Campbell Tatham & Kathryn Kenny
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Gen, High School Theater, Jealousy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 14:59:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1514687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maeve_of_Winter/pseuds/Maeve_of_Winter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Epiphany" is only a part of Jane's name, not a part of her actual character.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paint Them a Picture, Jane

**Author's Note:**

> Directly follows the first installment in the series, "Calamity Jane."
> 
> I welcome constructive criticism on all of my works. If you want to leave a comment, that's perfectly fine, but if you'd prefer to send a message, my email is goldphoenixrising@yahoo.com.

Thursday afternoon, ten minutes after the Sleepyside Junior-Senior High School final bell. Boisterous shouts and whoops of laughter echo throughout the streets as groups of teenagers walk home. Numerous students dash about, chattering with friends, starting impromptu snowball fights, celebrating the near completion of yet another week, and generally being happy.

Jane Sammael is not one of them.

She trudges down the sidewalk, knowing she looks like a model in her meticulously planned hairstyle and vintage outfit, and feeling lower than the slush melting on the pavement.

_I should have been Juliet._

It's a constant mantra of bitterness that persists in the back of her mind every time her attention is divided. And now, as she treks along the pavement, her Mary Jane-clad feet crunching over rock salt, she cannot help but dwell over her failures.

_I should have been Juliet._

She has the talent, the stage presence, and the drive to give an excellent performance. Maybe she doesn't have the looks-- she's pretty, Jane knows, but in a generic blond, movie extra sort of way-- still, that's a petty reason to pass her over when she was obviously a top choice.

Yet Diana Lynch, talentless, witless, and feckless-- but beautiful-- has snatched the part away from her.

January Delilah Epiphany Sammael, (Jane. _Jane._ Dammit, what sort of idiot names his kid "January"?) does not typically consider herself to be a wrathful person. Sarcastic, cynical, and artificial, yes, but not vengeful.

(Thinking about it, she no longer wants to be Jane Sammael. She won't keep her father's name, not after what he did to her mother. She'll be Jane Morgan, and use her mother's maiden name. Good Lord, things would have worked out so much better had her mother simply never been involved with her father.)

But Diana Lynch.

They had been friends, once, when she and Di were kids in grade school. She had stumbled across Diana crying in the bathroom at school, after some of the other first-grade girls had mocked Di's rickrack-trimmed homemade dress. They had been good friends, her and Di, until Mr. Lynch had magicked his millions into existence and Diana had decided she was too good for the likes of mere plebeians. NutraSweet Wheeler and the ever obnoxious Trixie Belden had rushed to fill Jane's vacancy.

Jane closes her eyes momentarily to stave off pain, and it isn't from the streaming sunlight bouncing off the gleaming snow.

_I should have been Juliet._

Losing to Diana Lynch, of all people.

To be honest with herself, there is no true reason to harbor this loathing for Diana; Jane is well aware that if she is to detest anyone, it ought to be Miss Darcy, who decided the parts.

Nevertheless, this utter rancor, the loathing that burns in her throat and brings her teeth to grind and her stomach to ache, this wholehearted hatred that consumes her . . . is oddly exhilarating.

Why abandon it?

Why walk away from it, when for once it forces Jane to feel something?

This constant antipathy is draining, no doubt, but it's better than the vaguely melancholy emptiness that has recently enveloped her.

Her hatred is damaging, true, but it gives her focus. Gives her purpose.

The end result of the war is not an ultimate factor-- as long as Jane feels the thrill of battle, she'll be satisfied.

The shop window of the sporting goods store she is about to pass brings Jane to pause; there, at the forefront of the display case, is the tennis racket she has been eying for weeks.

Maybe the next time a screaming argument erupts between her and her father, she'll let him know that she wants this tennis racket. He usually buys her some outrageously expensive item after their verbal battles, and Jane supposes the presents are intended as his unspoken apologies.

Feeding the ogre is wrong, Jane knows, and destructive to both her and her father.

_I should have been Juliet._

. . . but there isn't enough time in the world for all the family therapy sessions she and her father would need to salvage their relationship. And that racket would serve her very well during her time on the country club tennis courts . . .

Tearing herself away from lingering in admiration of the racket, Jane reminds herself of her goal: get to Uncle David's office to help him take care of the animals, and score an invitation to dinner.

There's hardly any food in her house at the moment. Her mother fired the housekeeper in a moment of anger, as a passive-aggressive swipe at Jane's father, sparking an argument that led to a screaming match. The altercation was the soundtrack to which Jane had been forced to endure when practicing her lines the night before play auditions. With her parents are too busy with their acrimonious divorce to go grocery shopping, and Jane unwilling to risk their wrath by requesting money to visit the supermarket herself, not even if it would get her that tennis racket sooner than later, the fridge stands practically empty.

The sun beats down on her, and Jane loosens the buckled belt of her woolen, military-inspired trench coat. The sudden switch from the snowy weather to warmth faintly annoys her. A mid-winter thaw, temporary, inspiring wasted hopes for an early spring. It's pointless to wish for a relief from the inclement weather; they will soon be buried underneath another blanket of snow before January is out.

She wishes she had thought to bring sunglasses, though. The light reflections on the snow seem to be intensifying with every moment. She stops and closes her eyes for several seconds to let her vision recover. She opens her lids again, and instantly wishes she hadn't.

The bright sunlight pierces her eyes, impaling needles into the back of her brain. Jane's pulse pounds at her temples, and a sharp pain spontaneously spikes through her skull. Purple spots dance at the edge of her vision, and the street blurs before her eyes as the air abruptly rushes from her lungs, like she's been socked in the stomach again. Gravity suddenly wants to bring her crashing to the sidewalk: one of her dizzy spells has taken hold.

Desperate to avoid collapsing in the street like some junkie, Jane flounders blindly for several terrifying seconds, but finally manages to find a telephone pole. For a few minutes, she simply leans against the the robust cylinder to reorient herself, trembling uncontrollably, drawing in gulps of air and waiting for the spots wavering in front of her eyes to recede.

She scrapes together enough resolve to continue to walk, though chills prick her spine, causing her to shudder in spite of the warm sun. Pushing back against the telephone pole to give herself momentum, Jane feels her fingers brush across a piece of paper. Perplexed, Jane moves forward a few paces, then turns and squints at the flyer.

It's a playbill.

Her lips tighten.

_I should have been Juliet._

The only thing she lacks is looks.

With a huff, Jane stalks off down the street, swaying for the first few steps, but a glimpse of her reflection halts her in her tracks.

Maybe she is uglier that she realizes. Her father often calls her fat-- it's his insult of choice for her out of his various frequent criticisms, and one of the reasons Jane hates to be in the same room as him. Jane has never considered herself heavy-- she's a size three, after all. But maybe he has a point.

Jane stares down at her designer shoes, which seemed classic and cute at the store, but now like she's trying much too hard.

 _Or maybe_ , a voice whispers in the back of her head, _it's not the outside as much as the inside that's ugly._

No. Jane brushes that notion aside. That old saying is useless and trite.

_I should have been Juliet._

She rounds the next corner and fixes her eyes on her uncle's office, still some one hundred and fifty yards away. A familiar car is pulled up to the curb just outside the building, leading Jane to groan inwardly. Please not the station wagon she's thinking of- those are the last people she wants to see at the moment.

As if on cue, Jim Frayne emerges from the front door of her uncle's office and strides toward the station wagon.

 _Probably visiting that criminally untrained Irish Setter_ , Jane thinks uncharitably. That dumb dog had practically dragged her in front of an oncoming car the other day when she attempted to walk him. _Please, please don't let Jim see me_.

"Hey, Jane!" The friendly call sounds up the street.

Jane closes her eyes briefly. She certainly isn't going to to wave back. "Epiphany" is only her name, not a part of her actual character.

_I should been Juliet._

But what does it matter, really? She isn't Juliet, Diana Lynch is. And here is one of Diana's friends, greeting her like they're old pals, as if he doesn't know each and every last horrible thing Jane has done to the other girl.

_I should have been Juliet._

But she isn't.

 _I should have_ . . .

The thought dies halfway through her mind, as in a moment of either temporary clarity or temporary insanity, Jane smiles and lifts her arm to wave back at Jim.


End file.
